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<title>a story about clipping nails by doublejoint</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490943">a story about clipping nails</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint'>doublejoint</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>One Piece</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:23:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490943</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no one else Crocodile would let hold so much of him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Crocodile/Mr. 1 | Daz Bones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a story about clipping nails</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>brief mildly gory imagery</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Daz clips with his thumb and forefinger, short blades making curved lines against his skin, the exact shape he wants to cut--much better than any set of nail clippers that Crocodile had ever used, but that’s partly Daz showing off, blades as sharp as they need to be, the perfect shape to round out the end of each fingernail. When he’s done, Crocodile flexes his fingers; Daz still hasn’t retracted his blades, shining against his skin, catching the reflections and refractions of light from Crocodile’s rings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crocodile holds out his foot next; those he could do with no difficulty himself, but he doesn’t have any nail clippers and Daz won’t say no. And the flat of a sharp blade against the end of his toe, the knowledge that he is in Daz’s hands--danger, Daz could slit him open and let the blood spill out, negate his power, but--he won’t. It is foolish for Crocodile to let him do this, perhaps, to tilt his head back and point his toes deliberately, to trust in Daz’s pride in his precision, his loyalty--not to trust in his ability to read the gesture for what it is, though. He will as he has every time he’s done this, warm hands on Crocodile’s cold feet, quick snaps of blade through dead ends of keratin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he finishes both of Crocodile’s feet, he moves to his own, a slightly faster pace like a ship that’s shifted just a little to catch the wind, but the sound still steady. Crocodile’s feet are still in his lap; he pushes his soles into Daz’s thigh.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Neither of them much cares for winter islands, but they’d ended up on one anyway, the air too cold and too damp. Crocodile feels slower than he should be, as if he’s had just a little too much wine, but also like there’s something stuck to the inside of his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This particular cold front ought to clear soon and they’ll be able to get out of the port, but until then they’ve got nothing better to do but to lie on the bed wrapped in the furs, Daz on top of Crocodile like another, the only light filtering in from the porthole dim and weak, like a dying flame on a cigar. Daz is reading the latest issue of his superhero comic, and at this angle Crocodile can’t see half the page. He tries to adjust his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can read it later,” says Daz, turning the page. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crocodile doesn’t reply.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>He falls asleep, and dreams of Alabasta, Daz under the sun, the sand shimmering as if an ocean, the dunes as if waves, and he feels so much younger than he is, the years unwound as if through a spiraling tornado. The sky is clear, a watery eye, the sun a perfect circle in it. Daz’s mouth is dry, his face unscarred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes thinking about how ultimately unsurprised Daz had been that Crocodile had been the person he’d been working for, how the initial jolt head worn off and how he’d said, later, when they were waiting in that holding cell, that in hindsight it made sense. And he’d meant that about more than one thing, like the hat, stiff on Crocodile’s head. He’d never buy something like that to wear now, but—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daz is still asleep on top of him. He doesn’t wake when Crocodile pushes aside the furs, curls his toes against the cold floorboards, and leaves for the galley.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Their teakettle whistles weakly, not loud enough to hear from the bedroom. Crocodile puts out a cup for Daz anyway and leaves the rest of the tea leaves in the pot; Daz likes it overbrewed to the point of bitterness, strange on the surface, but considering him, not really. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The print on the porcelain teacups is starting to fade. Crocodile frowns; they’d paid too much for them if they’d been so cheaply made. No matter. They have time to sail around and pick out a better set. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This issue of the comic is slow-paced, low action, like they’re trying to drag out the story arc--such as it is. He thinks again of the holding cell, but of Daz dressed as a superhero; he’d be much more efficient than this protagonist. No matter. Crocodile draws his coat closer around him and pours himself another half-cup of tea. He’d rather finish reading the newspaper than the rest of this dreck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He places a cigar in his mouth but doesn’t light it until Daz, finally awake, ventures into the galley and pours himself a cup of tea. His fingers brush Crocodile’s cheek as he passes, and Crocodile tilts his face up. He cuts off the end of the cigar in a flash, the blades retracting before it lands in Crocodile’s palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warmth of the smoke, the warmth remaining in the teacup, the warmth of the stove, on again as Daz heats up more water, make the weather a bit more tolerable. The porthole’s frosted over, though; Crocodile would really prefer to stretch out in the sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want to go to a summer island next?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” says Daz. “We’ll have to buy new teacups.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will, won’t we?” says Crocodile.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Daz goes out for a walk after dinner; when he returns there are snowflakes clinging to his eyebrows, melting into his skin just after he shuts the door. The breeze he brings in with him is stiff, and Crocodile clenches his teeth around his cigar, breathes in even deeper. Daz only sits down across from him once he’s sufficiently warmed up, stretching out his bare feet to meet Crocodile’s. Their toes brush against each other; the ends of the nails are blunt and don’t catch on skin. Crocodile closes his eyes, tipping his chair back slightly, resting his hook on the table. Daz’s foot curls around his ankle, warm and solid, as a knife in the pit of a forge. His fingers cover Crocodile’s on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no one else Crocodile would let hold so much of him. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! HBD Daz</p></blockquote></div></div>
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